Harvest Honey From Fear
© Surazeus
2025 12 26

Not resting till the fire is almost dead,
I toss and turn in sorrow of my bed,
then throw another log on bank of coals
while ignoring hot-huff breath of lithe foals,
and sip spiced cider that flushes my brain
with soft memories of golden summer grain.

When millions of bees swarm out of the moon
while I express sorrow with haunting tune
I follow them to old tree on the hill
where I search for secret source of free will
to carefully harvest honey from fear
so I can return as the puppeteer.

Startled from reverie by the soft chime
that accelerates my weird sense of time,
I wield knife to slice loaf of quietness
with calm self-discipline of Tantalus,
then offer with love to the faceless ghost
of my absent lover honey-soaked toast.

I feel strange joy of pleasure swell in waves
of vibrant energy among deep graves
when I strum lyre of Mercury with grace
to sing folk-songs borne from this ancient place
where people feast and dance on river shore
in country where nobody locks their door.

Blue ghosts of trees from smoke of crackling fires
transcend material trap of flesh desires,
yet I long to kiss your cane-scented mouth
to celebrate dark genius of the South
that seethes in souls of people fighting fate
who hide in paradise behind locked gate.

Lost people fallen from the dream machine
go dancing through wild woods of Melusine
while singing along footpaths of the swamp
to join parade of refugees with pomp
who build rough shacks in villages of hope
and with humble reverence learn to cope.

No wild-eyed shaman or arrogant priest
dares challenge Tiresias at the feast
for crown of wisdom he bears in his hand
while searching solemnly across the land
for brave descendant of the Lion King
to conduct our national choir to sing.

Yet moon-eyed owl in sprawling oak of faith
would judge my slanted progress on the path
that leads my brave ambition to escape
curse of fame by hiding under the cape
that renders me invisible to Death
when I meditate with celestial breath.

surazeus.blogspot.com/2025/12/…

Orpheus harvests honey from fear to brew mead which he serves at the feast in the forest of Melusine where refugees from war gather to build new homes in the Promised Land.

#Poetry #Poem #Pastoral #Necropastoral #MetaModernism #Transrealism #NewSublimity #NewRomanticism #AmericanDream #Cinemism #Existentialism #Surrealism #NegativeCapability #NewGnosticism #MetaRealism #NewTranscendentalism #Astarism